"Now you folks kin do anything you like. There's some books on the shelf in the parlor, if you want to stay in, but most city folks want to be outdoors every minute. It's right pretty over in the woods, but the ground's damp yet, even in the sun. You'd better take a buggy robe; we got a lot of old ones in the barn fur that."
Jean was already at the door, when Mrs. Morrison added:
"I clear forgot to ask your names; seem like I always know people when they like the place."
Jean stepped into the outer hall.
"Murray," Gregory said after a brief pause.
"Murray. That's easy. We git some awful queer ones in summer, and I was never no good at names. Mattie has to keep 'em straight."
She passed through the swing door with the tray of forks and knives,
"It's Murray, Mattie; Mr. and Mrs. Murray," Jean heard her say.
Jean went quickly out into the sunshine. Gregory waited until his pipe was drawing well before he joined her.
For an hour they kept to the road that led up hill and then down into the dogwoods, just beginning to swell with spring. At last they spread the robe where the sun splattered through in golden pools and a little creek gurgled as if it had done something very sly and clever in stealing away from winter. Gregory lay with his head in Jean's lap and they talked, the silences growing longer and longer, until, looking down after an unusually long one, Jean saw that he was fast asleep.